


swallow the shallow water

by thedevilbites



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, BDSM (kinda?? he ties her up with zip ties and she is all snarky someone tell me what that is), Dom/sub Undertones, Drunk Shenanigans, F/M, Five is just there at the right place and time, Houston i repeat the sexual tension has skyrocketed, Lila is seriously hammered, Mentions of The Handler because of course we mention Lila's mother, Plotless?? perhaps, Power Play, Unresolved Sexual Tension, i mean how could we not there are obviously some odd issues there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:49:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25713841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilbites/pseuds/thedevilbites
Summary: “Look,” she drawls, gnawing on her bottom lip lazily, “a five-year-old is tying me up.”
Relationships: Number Five | The Boy/Lila Pitts
Comments: 26
Kudos: 48





	swallow the shallow water

**Author's Note:**

> i've watched up to S2E6, so I'm just going off of what I know from that point. p
> 
> also, five/lila revs hard and no one can tell me otherwise!! 
> 
> #the sexual tension between them is so palpable you could eat it for breakfast

Everything’s dissolving. Turning. Teetering. Spinning round and round and round on its—

“X-axis,” Lila slurs, slumped over the kitchen island, hands gripping the edges of the sink. Her vision blurs. Blends. _Twists._

She leans forward, the tips of her hair swinging like a pendulum against the drain. Nausea bubbles in the back of her throat, sludgy and lukewarm. She wants to—spit. Dry heave. Gargle some baking soda and salt water. 

She glances at the ceiling, eyes rolling back, head lolling even deeper.

The world is a kaleidoscope of colors. Cotton candy pink, slippery green, a dark seeping indigo. A sticky amber. 

She shakes her head, blinks a few times, and the amber solidifies into an overturned bottle of whiskey on the counter. Half of it is on the floor, half of it is in her mouth. Sliding down her esophagus. Churning in her stomach.

“It’s your Y-axis,” comes a cheery voice from behind her, and Lila jerks her head up, confused. Alarmed. Startled. No, not startled—

“Word-class assassins don’t get _startled,_ ” she sneers at Number Five, nodding vehemently as her ankles wobble beneath her. She adjusts her grip, tightens her fingers, crimps her toes against the cherry-red backing of her stilettos. 

“Not like you would know, though.” He bites back, slowly walking over to her. Lila frowns. He does that a lot. Walks over. _Slowly._ Hands curled into his pockets, head cocked to the side, eyebrows drawn and forehead all wrinkled. 

She smiles, giddy, mouth open too wide. Like a catfish. She shakes her head. Funny how he can look so old, in a body so perfectly young. So perfectly timeless. Immaculate.

“You’re _immaculate,_ ” she tells him matter-of-factly, even though she meant to sneer again, and she honestly forgets how this was supposed to be insulting. 

“Glad you came to that conclusion yourself.” 

She closes her eyes. It’s too bright. _He’s_ too bright, and he sounds amused. Like he’s laughing at her.

Lila wants to scold him. Put him in his place. Axe-kick him in the head. All of the above. 

It’s dark in here. Beneath her eyelids. It’s like she’s a fetus again, floating around in something sticky and thick and black. It’s hard to move, but it’s not constricting. Constraining. _Restraining._

“What are you doing to me?” She asks. Or, she wants to ask. She’s not really sure if she did. Her lips feel heavy, like they’re filled with those little metal balls that weigh down pie crust in the oven.

“Nothing.” There’s some shuffling around her head. She should really open her eyes. 

“Did you drug me?” 

“You drank a bottle and a half of Jameson, I don’t need to drug you.”

Lila careens forward slightly, ears ringing as she struggles to slide to the floor. Gently. With _pose_ and _praise_ and _pride._ Like her mother, she thinks sagely. She’s tired of holding onto the sink, also. 

There’s a thump, and her knees are stinging. Ah, so _there’s_ the floor.

When his hands lock around her wrist, she doesn’t even flinch. She should, objectively speaking, because _he’s_ the enemy _he’s_ the one she doesn’t trust _he’s_ the who threatened to kill her next time he saw her. 

But, all she can think of is—

“Your hands are cold.”

She can tell he’s raising an eyebrow. Both of them. 

“Like ice,” she continues, fidgeting with the strap of her silk dress that’s fallen off her shoulder, twirling it around her free finger, “but, you know, not as cold. Like baby ice. Ice that’s already half-melted, where the majority is water, and the rest is just slushy. _Slush._ All gelid and wet and sticky—gelid _goop._ ”

He doesn’t move for a second. She’s shocked him, probably. That’s a shame, though. That she’s tarnishing her reputation in front of him. She’s much more composed when she’s sober. 

She sighs, snuggles deeper into the hard edge of the kitchen cabinet, and then Five’s back to doing— _something,_ she’s not really sure what, and _she’s_ back to wondering how small his hands are. There’s ten fingers clamped onto her right wrist. They’re thin, but constantly scurrying about her arm. Like ants. The many legs of a centipede. A millipede.

“I’ve always liked bugs,” she slurs, brandishing her free hand and tipping forward into the darkness.

“Look, crazy, can you just _shut up_ and _listen_ to me for a second?” 

Lila salutes him. She’d bow, too, if she wasn’t so comfortable on the floor.

 _“Lila.”_

“God, what? You’re _such_ a drag.”

“Give me your other hand.”

She obediently sticks it out in front of her, towards his voice.

There’s five fingers on both of her wrists, now. His hands aren’t any warmer, either. Neither are the zip ties he seems to be fastening around her. 

“Look,” she drawls, gnawing on her bottom lip lazily, “a five-year-old is tying me up.”

“A five-year-old _tied_ you up,” Five corrects, pulling hard on the ties, and her wrists snap together. The plastic digs into her flesh. Her palms start to tingle immediately, the telling ebb of her circulation. It’s tight. It _hurts._

She’s not about to ask him to loosen them, though. 

“Okay, so now you’re _exactly_ like this one sadistic English teacher I had in primary school. You gonna spank me, too?”

The hand that has now moved to her left ankle pauses, and she wonders if he’s actually considering it. 

“No,” Number Five says, eventually, slowly, like she’s tripped him up. Given him something to chew on. “Only if you misbehave.”

“You use that line on all your conquests, do you?”

“Well, you did try to kill me.”

“Only because you threatened to kill me first.” 

“You mean only because your mother—“

“Look, boy shorts, I _really_ don’t want to think about my mother right now.” 

“And why’s that?” His hand is suddenly on her thigh, pushing the hem of her dress up and to the side, the calloused pad of his thumb pressing into her skin. 

Lila opens her eyes to find Five in between her legs. 

Her breath trembles in her throat. 

Her vision fizzes and fuzzes and swims and swims and _swims._

“Go on, _do it,_ ” she hisses, snaps her teeth in his face, growls and spits like something viscous.

“You think I won’t?” 

Lila scoffs, slants her tongue against her gums, swollen and tender. “You’re just a boy.”

He slides his hand higher up. “I’m a forty-five-year-old man.” He sounds like he’s smirking. Her eyes are closed again. Lila thinks of uniforms and cut-off shorts and crisp ankle-high socks. 

She’s hot. _Sticky._ The bottom of her underwear is damp, like something melted onto it. Soaked through. 

Five’s hand is grazing her underwear, fingering the lace. His nails graze her cunt, and she recoils, hisses sharply. 

“Tell me you like it.” 

She nods obediently. 

He presses his knuckles against her, hard, and she jolts. _“Say it.”_

“I like it.” 

“And again?”

“Christ, you asshole, _I like it._ ” She’s exasperated. She hates him. She wants him to _move,_ she wants him to _bleed_. She—

She’s really _really_ drunk.

God, what is she doing? How did she let this happen? 

“Get off of me, schoolboy,” Lila whispers, teeth latched together, rigid. Her forehead is throbbing. She can’t feel her hands anymore. They lie limp in front of her, dead weight.

Five stares at her. Leans back on his haunches, like he’s searching for something. “Fine.”

Then his hand is gone.

Lila swallows thickly, and cranes her neck, looks up at him from under her fringe.

He’s crouched over her legs. Hands skim up her ankle, unclasping her heels. There’s still an ache between her legs. She focuses on the zip ties lying on the floor.

“I’ve lost feeling in my elbows.” 

“You’ll be fine.” He doesn’t even look up.

 _“You’ll_ be fine, maybe. I’m not sure how much ‘fine’ _I’ll_ be without any arms.” 

He yanks. Her ankles snap together. She winces. “Or without any legs.”

Five stands, brushing dust or lint or whatever was on Elliot’s floor off his shorts. He huffs, then disappears. He’s back in the next second.

“I just checked, you’ll be fine.” 

She blinks. “You just _what?_ ”

 _“Checked,”_ he grits, clearly exasperated. “Now, are you feeling any better?” 

“I thought you could only jump—“

 _“Hey,”_ he snaps his fingers in her face, “Are. You. Feeling. Any. Better?”

“I’m still not entirely sober, if that’s what you’re asking,” she scowls, mulish, staring pointedly at the floor. There’s a lone blueberry rotting next to her.

“Fantastic.” His smile is cold. 

Then he kicks her in the throat.

Lila gasps, tries to breathe. Her hands automatically go for her throat, for _his_ throat, but her limbs only tingle when she tries to move them.

She doesn’t moan. Her throat is stinging. _Smarting._ She’s wheezing. It feels like he’s crushed her windpipe.

“Going to fuck me while I’m unconscious, are you?” Lila rasps up at him, voice scratchy and trembling and barely audible. Somehow she’s standing up, or maybe he’s down on the floor with her. She’s not really sure.

“You would certainly like it if I did.” 

There’s a ringing in her ears. The thrumming in her head croons and warbles louder, like a staticky radio.

“So would you,” she croaks, voice slurred. 

Five shrugs. “Doubtful. I’ve got prior engagements with your toady, sycophant mother to attend to.” 

“And you’ll be thinking about me the whole time.

“Are you implying that you’re jealous?”

“I’m implying you’re a pervert.”

He cocks his head, a strange gleam in his eyes. 

“Well, I’d love to stay and chat, but I can’t keep a lady—sorry, old tumultuous hag—waiting.”

“Fine. _Fine,_ ” she sighs, “Go fuck my mother while you think about fucking me. I don’t care.” 

She’s definitely still hammered. 

Five laughs, and the sound reverberates around in her skull. Echoes, hollow and charming and arch.

“I’m not going to fuck your mother.”

“Sure.” She sneers petulantly. God, she can’t believe she’s actually upset about this.

“I know this may sound like a foreign concept to you, but have some _faith,_ crazy.” 

“Faith in an assassin who’s trussed me up like some carnival pig, and is now going to a meeting with my mother to most definitely _not_ turn me in, and _not_ fuck her eight ways to Sunday.”

“Precisely.”

“You’re impossible.”

“ _I’m_ impossible?”

“You’re just too young to see it.”

“I’m more than twice your age.”

Lila winks at him. “That’s what makes this so hot.”

“ _Jesus,_ look, now I’m _actually_ late.” He disappears from the kitchen.

“Five!” 

“What now.” He flickers into view in front of her. 

“Don’t you want to, uh, finish what you started?”

He leans over her, one hand stuffed into his pocket. The strange gleam in his eyes is back. “Maybe,” he says, eventually, “when I get back. If you can convince me.”

”Fine,” she snorts, her head tips back lazily. It feels too heavy. Her head. Like it’s straining against gravity. 

“Fine, _what?_ ”

“Fine, _maybe._ ”

“ _Maybe_ when I get back?”

She nods.

“Say it.” 

Her mouth falls open. The pit of her stomach stirs. Slithers. _Nags_ at her. “I’ll convince you.” She whispers.

“Okay.” He straightens, brushes his pants once, twice. 

“When’s the last time you washed those?”

He purses his lips, fixes her with a _look,_ and—

“Five?”

“ _Lila,_ don’t make me gag you.”

She giggles. “Kinky,” and at his expression, backtracks, “Okay, what I was going to say is, don’t be long.”

He pauses. Smiles at her. He _might_ be smiling at her. She thinks she’s falling asleep. Everything’s all fuzzy and black and warm. Like a Jacuzzi. 

When she opens her eyes again, he’s gone.

**Author's Note:**

> well, then—
> 
> *exchanges courteous glances with surrounding peers i.e leftover cup of tea on desk and quill i recklessly bought 5 years ago and haven’t touched since* 
> 
> —that’s that. 
> 
> @thedevilbites on tumblr, feel free to say hello!


End file.
